Back when I was about little league age, though I never played in little league (for better or worse, and probably for better from what I have heard), my dad traveled to various book conventions around the country as part of his work. We lived at the time in a creaky floored, three-story Victorian house—of the North American variety—complete with eerie, Civil War era “dungeons,” stone foundation, and a domed turret façade. In short, to a young child the place felt rather expansive and a little unwelcoming; by night, I swore it was even haunted, especially with a massive cemetery cradling those soldiered dead only a few blocks away. Much of that was somehow ameliorated, however, when my dad returned after a long trip from one of those book shows. The hollow, old Victorian house seemed to grow warmer and shrink to a more comfortably sized dwelling space. Also, material fiends that consumerist children can be, it certainly improved my spirits when he came home bearing gifts snagged from whatever recent New York or Chicago convention.
Take, for example, one such book show freebie of the Man of Steel soaring through a veritable metropolis of enormous library books stacked as high as skyscrapers. And little matter how haphazardly this bookmark from 1983 stayed closeted away among so many other dusty possessions from my youth: the paper has nevertheless maintained much of its original crispness and gloss, while the colors likewise remain agelessly sharp and bright—from the blues and reds of Superman’s carefully inked super suit to the fleecy down of the clouds above.
Again, the copyright printed at the bottom of this bookmark identifies the year as 1983 (with ownership claimed by none other than DC Comics), alongside the named sponsoring organization of the “America Library Association.” Of course the ALA’s founding principles also inform the well-intentioned if not inane physical strength appeal—for reading—with the blocked letters that proclaim “KNOWLEDGE IS REAL POWER!,” which almost every bullied, grade school bookworm understands as suspect rhetoric.
In any case, I have not yet researched where the ALA held their annual big convention in 1983, and maybe I prefer for this to remain a mystery to me. That way I can imagine it could have been anywhere—that perhaps my dad traveled to the moon to bring back this small but thoughtful gift to his son.
In fact, my dad returned from that year’s meeting of the ALA with a stack of these Superman bookmarks. If memory serves, though so often it doesn’t, I remember that at one time I had a drawer full with dozens of the colorfully printed bookmarks; actually, my stockpile may have numbered a hundred or more. I recall how they even felt like some curious, vibrant form of currency. Of course they held little monetary value, but Superman easily made up for that lack in other, more worthwhile terms. Over time, however, my formerly plentiful supply thinned, what with each new but changeable acquaintance made, upon whatever the latest family move (and that childhood Victorian house being left behind long ago). Strangely, or fittingly, this is the last remaining Superman placeholder in my possession. For me, that only increases its real value, its real power.
Pulp Ephemera 